


Pits of Sin

by handful_ofdust



Category: 3:10 to Yuma (2007)
Genre: Ben Wade is a Lying Liar, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunkenness, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 21:42:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handful_ofdust/pseuds/handful_ofdust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "Think Like A Gun," Ben Wade tries to deal with his own decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Many sorrows shall be to the wicked. —Proverbs, 32-10_

  
Bad idea, is pretty much all Ben Wade’s been thinking, since that night upstairs in Mahoney’s cathouse: Bad plan, bad move, _bad_ damn decision on his part, he who always prides himself on planning so far ahead, working out every potential angle long before he commits himself to anything. A mistake, pure and simple—never to be repeated, he told himself immediately afterwards, for fear of of compounding the original error…

  
So why is it, _how_ is it, that Ben keeps on finding himself in such amazingly compromising positions—first once, then again, then yet one time more, on top of all that—with someone at least as potentially dangerous as himself, though considerably less aware of the situation’s more undesirable ramifications: Ie, Charlie Goddamn Prince?

  
That Charlie’s happy with what’s apparently become their current—illogical, haphazard, almost entirely unspoken—"arrangement" is both no surprise and an increasingly ill-kept secret, but it certainly can’t be allowed to stand; Charlie’s happiness, after all (though a fine thing, in principle), needs to be kept always strictly subordinate to both Ben’s dignity _and_ their previously established form of partnership: The same one’s made them mutually rich and feared, rather than the one might yet render them shunned and whispered about.

  
And granted, the day-to-day running of an outlaw band often involves making hard decisions…but really, this ain’t much of a stretch. Fact is, if Ben wants things to at least hold fast at the same level of efficiency he’s been used to sustaining thus far, it just doesn’t make a lick of sense in anything but the most immediate moment to continue "letting" Charlie put his tongue down Ben’s throat, his hand down Ben’s pants or Ben’s dick in his mouth, not even intermittently. It’s a surefire way to ruin their collective reputation, or even get them both killed, it goes on long enough—not that Charlie’d ever think strategically enough to register the possibility, of course. Or care much, either way.

  
And there’s the rub. For while nothing really _scares_ Ben, per se—him being Ben damn Wade, and all—he does tend to stay naturally shy of anything he thinks might eventually spell his own downfall. Charlie, though…Charlie Prince, who thinks dismounting a horse at full gallop’s practical rather than risky, mainly because if he ever does it wrong, it’s not like he’ll know…

  
…him, not so much.

  
At first, as they travel further west together—fixing to collect the rest of Ben’s gang from whatever pits of sin they might have gathered in, here and there, between Mahoney’s and the Mexican border—everything runs fine for whole days at a time; normal, natural. The easy give and take of Ben’s wit and charm vs. Charlie’s blank no-philosophy, his odd flashes of mean humor, his amusingly open contempt for simple folk. Ben can almost forget he ever unwisely decided it might be fun to pin the younger man down and make him come ‘til he yelled so loud any passing rube could hear—or worse yet, that Ben did it principally because he could. Because he was drunk, and bored, and suspected—

  
(rightly, it turns out)

  
—how Charlie, in his borderline crazy devotion, was far less likely to try and fight him off like any normal man than simply count himself unexpectedly lucky, and let him.

  
But: In the opium den where they find Jorgenson taking his ease, at last—hopped to the eyes and cheating at fan-tan so ineptly, it eventually takes the sight of both Charlie’s Schofields unleashed at once _and_ a command performance from the Hand of God itself before they can walk him back out of there alive—Charlie catches Ben’s nod, then leans himself on his elbows across the bar to order drinks on the house in Ben’s name, plus a special bottle for the dealer. And as he does, damn if Ben doesn’t feel something _flex_ deep inside him at the sight; not exactly an unfamiliar one, after all these years. Yet so recently recontextualized, all of a sudden, it might just as well be the very first fine-made posterior he’s ever caught view of (let alone from such an extremely flattering angle).

  
The aforementioned three-gun stand-off, some mild property damage and a brief jaunt out of pursuit-range later, Jorgenson’s snoring obliviously with his saddle-bags piled around his head like a wind-break, while Ben and Charlie wrestle each other up against the nearest canyon wall: Lithe little Charlie, his bow-legs spread ‘til the hips seem almost like to crack so they can knock their leaking knobs together, beard scratching Ben’s face raw as he duels him tongue-first for a chance at the upper hand—maybe hoping to lose, but sure not makin’ it easy, on either of them. Not even already knowing just how much he’ll like it, if and when he does.

  
Ben keeps one palm muzzled tight over Charlie’s mouth as they go at it, trying to head off a repeat of that ill-advised din he let loose with through the walls at Mahoney’s. But Charlie just opens wide, by way of response; lets Ben’s thumb slip in and moans around it, hot throat thrumming, ‘til Ben—not to be outdone—humps him all the higher, hammers him all the harder. Marvels at the feel as Charlie tightens his limbs around him, pinned fast and apparently helpless—yet grinning, nonetheless, while Ben puts him through his paces. Like there’s no other place on Earth he’d rather be, with no other person, doing any other thing…

  
Dipping down to burrow his face under Ben’s half-open shirt, now, singleminded as some child; fixing his sharp teeth on Ben’s nipple and sucking fiercely, like he thinks if he only does it hard enough he’ll get milk (or blood). And when climax takes them both at last, they all but pop apart with a triumphant yowl on Charlie’s part and a strangled curse on Ben’s—still too damn loud for comfort, plus it frigging _hurts,_ at least as much as it don’t. Ben doubles up panting, hands braced on knees, and feels his mid-back twinge like it’s been kicked; getting a bit too soft in the gut, for this sort of impromptu exertion. Then looks over to find Charlie still sagged ecstatically back against the rock with his pants ‘round his knees, utterly careless of who might be watching, and warns—

  
"What’d I say about the _noise_ , Goddamn it? You used to be able to take orders."

  
Charlie flushes fierce at Ben’s tone, jerked back all at once from bliss to reality, and quickly straightens to tuck himself away.

  
"Yeah?" he replies. "Seemed like you liked what I was doin’ fine enough, up ‘til maybe one moment ago."

  
Which is…true, strictly speaking, but still (like all displays of open defiance) utterly unacceptable; Ben straightens up too, eyes suddenly gone cold. Snapping back:

  
"I don’t actually believe you want to sass me, Charlie Prince—not under _any_ sort of circumstances."

  
It’s a tone which brooks (nor allows) no oppposition at all—insult of the sort Charlie wouldn’t take from any other man alive, not without things comin’ to bullets. But since this is Ben, Charlie’s spine automatically jerks even stiffer at the mere sound, eyes widening: Empty like desert sky, guileless as any born predator’s. Like a pit-dog’s eyes when it hears its master’s voice and knows it’s done something wrong, without ever knowing why.

  
And: "No, boss," Charlie says, obviously meaning it. "I sure don’t. I just, I mean…I’m…"

  
A beat. Then, softer:

  
"…I was just…happy, is all."

  
Standing there shame-faced with his parts fresh-hidden but his outfit still in disarray, his jacket gaping open and his purple shirt-tail out, hanging loose as some half-strangled man’s tongue. While Ben feels that odd interior _stab_ once more, from somewhere near that black and dusty cavern where he always heard his heart should reside—half plain fleshly desire for something merits it, half misguided sympathy for something he knows damn well is far too broken to fix, and far too dangerous to try.

  
Because: A methodical, implacable Charlie, gleeful only in the execution of his favorite pursuits…charging Gatlings, killing Pinkertons, surreptitiously hooking convenient swag from fresh-killed corpses and daring the rest of the gang to call him on it, if he catches them looking…that’s always been the standard state of affairs. Happy Charlie? Well, that’d certainly be different, unknown. A variable.

  
Uncontrollable.

  
Up on his own feet now, and almost completely sartorially re-organized, Ben tries for his usual rhetorical court of last resort—casts his mind on the Good Book, searching around for some easily-applicable quote (beyond, say, _Leviticus 18-22_ ) to explain why they shouldn’t be doing this anymore. But all he can gather is a sprinkling of _Proverbs_ , mostly 20-odd on: _Wine is a mocker, strong drink a brawler…The lazy person does not plough in season…Diverse weights and diverse measures are alike an abomination to the LORD…"Bad, bad" says the buyer, then goes away and boasts…_ Etcetera, ad infinitum, all and equally useless to the purpose at hand.

  
Or this one, finally—but is it really time for something so unforgiving, given he wants to at least keep Charlie safely in his service, if nothing more?—

  
_There is a way that seems right to a person but its end is the way to death. —Proverbs, 14-12._

  
So: "Fine, then," Ben replies. "You want us both to _stay_ happy, from now on? Then don’t come sniffin’ around me in this particular way, not ever again. It’s a mistake, always was, and it just ain’t gettin’ any less of one."

  
There’s a breathless pause; Charlie knits his pale brows, frankly amazed, and goggles his odd eyes at Ben in a way that’d be almost funny, under any other circumstances. ‘Til—

  
"What?" he says, at last.

  
"You heard me, Charlie."

  
Which should be more than enough, really. But Charlie keeps on staring, like Ben’s switched mid-sentence to speaking Heathen Chinee, or some-such. Like he’s never done any damn thing Ben told him to, with far less provocation, a thousand times before.

  
Slowly: "You know, occurs to me…none of this was exactly _my_ idea, to begin with. I mean, _I_ sure as Hell didn’t decide the best way to top off an evening at Mahoney's was to get me drunk and—"

  
(voice dropping at long last, though only slightly)

  
"— _fuck_ me."

  
Ben thinks about shrugging, but it doesn’t seem advisable—not with this sort of warning tint to Charlie’s green gaze. Just lays on the charm, therefore, twice as thick as ever; honey up front with a steel sting in the tail, drawing metaphorical blood.

  
"I’d’ve thought once was more’n enough, then, you hated it that much."

  
And now it’s Charlie’s turn to really shrug, though it’s really more of an awkward, mis-timed double-hitch. Allowing, as he does:

  
"Well…I didn’t. Hate it. And that’s why…it ain’t."

  
(Hmm. Obviously.)

  
And this, Ben thinks, is why he doesn’t dally with other men, most-times. Because—and this may be biology’s fault, at base—no matter how flexible he may try to be, given the circumstances, they’re always far less simple recreation than true, hard _work_.

  
Standing here, Ben recalls how he once saw Charlie shoot a man running flat-out while on the run just as hard, diagonally, from yards away; did it with one eye (his left) swollen shut and his gun-arm (which later proved broken) braced on his opposite fist, and when the man finally went down—he was a Pinkerton, predictably—Charlie pitched forward as well, instantly unconcious, as though shot himself. Ben had to lug him back to town tied under his own horse’s belly, like he’d been strung up by some bounty hunter.

  
But when Charlie woke, a day or two later, he didn’t complain about any of it: Not the bruises, the rope-burns around his wrists and ankles, the harsh bit of sun he’d caught across half his face and most of one side. Just looked around for Ben, where he sat dozing in the corner, and smiled once he’d found him; licked his lips, all cracked and peeling as they were. And asked, hoarsely:

  
_Boss…that Pink dead, or what?_

  
_Looks like, don’t it, Charlie? Or we’d all be in Yuma, by now._

  
A shrug. _Guess so. But we ain’t, are we?_

  
 _No, we are not._ Ben leaned forward, tapped him gently on the splinted arm, and smiled himself, at the thought. _You did real good, Charlie Prince._  
To which Charlie’d just nodded, like he was suddenly too tired to do anything else. And been asleep once more, a split second after that—snoring slightly, mouth hung open in utter reassured tranquility, knowing his boss was watching over him. Knowing he was _safe_.

  
No hesitation, none at all. Charlie Prince lives every second of his life like that, all in forward motion, with no regrets for a single, solitary thing he’s ever done. Like an animal, or an angel: Existing only to do the bidding of another. To do whatsoever Ben demands, without pause, or pity. And there’s the real rub, as Ben well knows: The sheer _power_ of being constantly expected to praise or ignore, to summon, or dismiss. To brook no questions, offer no explanations. To play God, literally…not just with Charlie, but anyone else gets between Charlie and his (or Ben’s, more like it) goals.

  
It’s fascinating, and not a little frightening, to be needed so bad it’s like you’re another man’s only mirror. Like Charlie thinks if he was to fade from Ben Wade’s sight, that’d be the end of him completely: All his stylishness, his skill, his basic oddity. His strange—and equally basic—purity of heart.

  
For there’s the difference, once again: Women want reassurance, stability, payment in kind. They want to be taken care of, at least for a little while—soothed and admired, not challenged. But it doesn’t matter how hard, how fast, how rough Ben makes the ride, each and every time they do it; all _Charlie_ wants, in the end, is harder, faster, rougher, _more_. Anything his "boss" cares to dish out he’ll take, gladly, with gratitude and hunger in equal measure, endlessly renewed.

  
Charlie’d die, if Ben asked it. Might even live the rest of his life out quiet, like one of the herd, and never preen over a dead man’s body for the benefit of a terrified crowd again, if Ben convinced him that was what he wanted done. But the one thing he’ll never do is leave Ben, or suffer himself to be left. He’ll follow Ben straight to his grave, hoping against hope to make it mutual—be buried inside as well, alive if need be, so long as he meets his Maker wrapped in Ben’s arms.

  
Though he’d never admit it out loud, Ben often sort of likes it when it seems as though God sends something to trip up even his best-laid plans; it’s almost enough to make a man think there really is someone up there, listening. Because practical as Ben is, easy as he likes to do things, there’s a strong streak of perversity in his nature, too—and the only thing he likes better than a debate he can win…

  
(usually, anyhow)

  
…is a fight he might lose.

  
And, oh: _Such a bad, bad, BAD idea,_ Ben thinks yet again, for all the good it can possibly do; more angry at himself than anyone else, and disliking the feeling intensely. For he’s always been his own best friend, after all…and Lord only knows it’s a tragic thing, when good friends fight.

  
"This really _will_ have to be the last time, Charlie," is all he says out loud, however. Then turns his back, safe in the knowledge that neither of them is armed right now, before he’s moved to add anything he might later come to regret—even more—

  
—than all the things he already does.


	2. Chapter 2

Ben wakes later than usual, tuckered out by last night’s exertions; half-expects an explosion when he does, or the lowering threat of one, at the very least—maybe even to find Charlie gone completely (for now), as can happen on occasion, whenever he gets to sulking extra-hard over something Ben’s told him he can’t do. But instead, there Charlie is, just the same as always…sitting right next to Jorgenson by the fresh-laid fire, doing exactly what Ben usually finds him doing, most mornings: Boiling coffee, heating up a few slices of ham wrapped in bread on a flat rock. Checking, then loading, his guns.

  
And: "Where to now, boss?" Jorgenson asks, nursing his head, as Ben joins them. Ben shrugs.

  
"Campos first, I’m thinking," he says. "Then Apache Joe, and the rest. Or perhaps the other way ‘round, depending on geography."

  
Charlie clicks his left-hand barrel home and spins it ‘til it rings true, nodding slightly. Suggesting, as he does:

  
"Might be you could find ‘em both together, they happened to end up back at that camp down-river; you know the one. ‘Cause it’s justabout that same time of year again, ain’t it?"

  
"I believe so, yes."

  
Jorgenson: "Time for what?"

  
"Both their peoples to meet up, intermingle—breed more little Joes and Camposes, I suppose, when and if the right sort of mood happens to strike ‘em. All I know is we passed by there last Spring, and if the site ain’t shifted since, it’s maybe…twenty miles that-a-way?" Another sharp click, quick spin, and definitive snap is what he gets in return; both weapons slide safely back into their respective holsters, handles angled outwards, for easy cross-drawing. Charlie looks up a second later, pale eyes rendered all-but-unreadable by sunlight, and nods again. "Well, then. Seems like a plan, to me."

  
"Sure does, boss."

  
A surprisingly good one, too, as it ensues: Apache Joe and Campos soon prove to be _exactly_ where Ben remembers ‘em, sporting it up in true Mex-Indian shindig fashion with a whole slew of mutual relatives. They get there late enough to make spending the night an option, so Ben flirts awhile with one of Campos’s cousins, while Jorgenson (apparently undeterred by his previous hangover) gets indecorously deep into a firewater-drinking contest.

  
She’s a sweet little thing, brown as a berry and remarkably tractable, but Ben still does find himself looking over to see what Charlie’s doing nonetheless, every now and again: Trick-riding with some of the braves or shooting fruit out of children’s hands, it ensues, before holding still while the women all crowd ‘round—girl and crone alike—to stroke his hair like they’re checking a dog for fleas, exclaiming loud over its brightsome, alien shade. Some of the newer mothers even hold their babies up for him to lean his forehead against in benediction, so they’ll grow up good little killers just like Carlito el Principe, that fearsome object of fame and dread…and he simply lets ‘em, without a shred of protest. Will wonders never cease?

  
Oh yes, this is Charlie Prince on his very best behavior, to be sure—freakishly so. And that alone’s enough to render Ben Wade just the tiniest bit worried, on some level.

  
In the very next town, meanwhile, they find Kinter, Nez and Tommy Darden too, all laid out on a bed full’a whores like some trio of Eastern Goddamn potentates. One of the pulchritudinous tangle—Juanita, Ben thinks her name is—spots Charlie coming in the door and leaps up to snare him ‘round the neck, pressing his face to her bare breasts; he steers her downward for a kiss, oddly polite in his placement, like she’s some problem he’s been studying on awhile. And Ben can’t help but note, as he does, how the movement of Charlie’s lips on hers is both uncharacteristically gentle and almost completely passionless—nothing at all the way they behave when on Ben’s own: Devouring, greedy, each new kiss never enough, the next always begun halfway through the first. His whole mouth gulping Ben’s breath like it’s whiskey, or life itself.

  
Charlie might well call that unmistakable difference in quality _love_ , if asked; blurt it out right to Ben’s face like the feral child he sometimes still seems, the boy too proud and deadly to think he ever has to lie. Fearless and unashamed as though Ben’s bed is just another daredevil gauntlet to prospectively kill himself in the running of, before time, age or the Law finally catch up close enough to do the job for him.

  
But: _Enough of that,_ Ben thinks, and watches approvingly as the girl draws Charlie off, while the others hoot and clap—Tommy the loudest of all of ‘em, that idiot, and still whispering "Charlie Princess" out the other side of his mouth as he does, like he genuinely thinks Charlie’s too cunt-struck to hear. His plan, if he even has one, seemingly being to question Charlie’s reputation as a lover so many times in public that it’ll somehow make Charlie see him more as a direct rival than a general liability—thus keeping Charlie’s boot out of his ass (or a bullet from one of Charlie’s guns out of his temple) for as long as humanly possible.

  
It might even work, if Charlie paid the slightest shred of attention to anything Tommy does, has done, might do. Or ever made a single move without Ben order him to first, in general…

  
(Ah, but that last part’s not exactly true, though, is it? Anymore.)

  
***

  
Ben drinks a bit harder than usual that night. And when dawn comes he’s already up to greet it, watching the horizon light up from East to West with absolutely nothing to show between both points, for all that effort, once it’s finally done its business. Just an empty, shrinking world, borders tight and getting steadily tighter, with nowhere left to ride to where people don’t already know his name, or want to kill him over it.

  
For: _No one finds security by wickedness_ , he catches himself thinking ( _Proverbs_ again, 12-3), and clicks his own tongue at himself. Musing further on how he really does need some other book to study, before the damn Bible’s the only thing left his brain can hold in its entirety—maybe that Milton poem the blind Irishman Velvet worked for used to like to quote from, if he can steal himself a copy somewhere. If Arizona ain’t far too plainspoke a territory to even stock such blatant Limejuicer blasphemy, in the first place.

  
Inside, Ben’s surprised to find nearly everybody already well-woke and loading up to ride on, though grumbling under their breath as they do it; Charlie’s work, most likely. Ben whistles for his horse and mounts up too, only to find the man himself immediately cantering to his side, jacket’s upper flap unbuttoned against the morning’s heat. Asking—

  
"You ready, boss?" At Ben’s nod: "All right, boys! Time to move out!"

  
A general moan, from somewhere in the direction of Kinter."Aw Charlie, goddamn! You know we ain’t soldiers no more, right?"

  
"Know _you_ ain’t, for damn sure," Charlie replies, coolly, and sets in his spurs—rockets past Ben, then reins hard and turns a small circle to stay with him, while also trying to tuck _something_ surreptitiously away down under the neck of his shirt with his free hand. It’s a string of beads, too long and suspiciously feminine in design, wrapped twice around his throat and knotted to keep it firmly on: Silver and jet, jauntily funereal. Definitely goes with the purple.

  
"That’s a nice necklace," Ben comments. "New?" Then, as Charlie shrugs: "Didn’t Juanita have one just like it?" Another shrug, chased with a sly half-smile; Ben laughs at the sight. "Why, Charlie Prince. You unbelievable magpie."

  
"Hey, I gave her a dollar and a half, _and_ I kept Tommy off of her. I more’n done my part."

  
"Well, I’m sure she’ll feel doubly grateful for all of the above, once she finds out it’s missin’."

  
"She’s a Mexicali whore, boss. I doubt she even likes me."

  
Ben laughs again. "Maybe not. But she’d’a probably liked you better—or longer, anyways—you hadn’t yanked her damn jewelry on the way out the door." A pause, to let the others—already fallen behind—catch up; quieter: "How’d that go, anyway? With…Juanita?"

  
Charlie’s eyes are cool when he turns them on Ben at that, paler green than ever: Cut grass, cut-glass. "It went," he says. Adding, a moment later—pitched similarly soft, to fall under the rest of the gang’s clatter, as they pull close—

  
"—I ain’t yet forgot how to bed a girl just ‘cause of _you_ , Ben Wade. If that’s what you’re askin’."

  
Which Ben wasn’t, exactly—or didn’t think he was, at any rate. But all he does is nod once more, voice rising back to normal range, like what they’re discussing’s nothing to fear anyone else overhearing.

  
And: "Well, then," he says, equally cool. "Glad to hear it."

  
Which takes them all the way to Splitfoot Joe’s, just outside Scrapegrace, where they hope pick up Sutherland and whatever extra cannon-fodder he’s managed to pull in with tales of Ben Wade’s munificence—last stop, bar one, before the stagecoach trail that leads parallel with Southern Pacific’s latest rail-laying enterprise, right through the heart of Bisbee.


	3. Chapter 3

Here’s where a further complication rears its sudden head, though: Turns out, Splitfoot’s is also currently playing host to George Doolin and _his_ gang, holed up between jobs, drinking hard and talking crap—George in particular, old and fat and crafty enough (though not half so crafty, in Ben’s opinion, as he thinks he is), rattling continually on about how since the James Boys’ many triumphs, the only true way of the future lies in robbing trains. If he cared enough to argue, Ben supposes he might have to point out that the _real_ legacy of Frank and Jesse seems to have been making sure no locomotive now carries as big a payload as they once used to, back in the day; Southern Pacific in particular is run by arrogant men, not stupid ones…

  
But he don’t, so he doesn’t; just sits back, keeps his own drinking light and watches things spin out well into the evening, sketching small studies in the flickery glare of Splitfoot’s fine new gas-powered chandelier. Watches his boys and Doolin’s spat and brawl a tad, then swap war stories, buy each other drinks. Watches Charlie watch him, hat tipped down to shade his eyes, from over by the bar—and there’s an image in itself, for sure, if Ben ever felt inclined to try and capture it. For Ben does sometimes get the urge to draw Charlie, on occasion (though only when he’s sleeping, the sole time it’d be possible to trap his headlong energy on paper). But the plain fact is, that’s the sort of evidence he doesn’t want to risk leaving behind…‘specially not in a world full of illiterates, people for whom a picture really is worth a thousand incautious words.

  
And now here’s something new to watch, even as he follows the previous thought through to its conclusion: George Doolin, sliding in beside Charlie with a drink in either hand and dipping their heads together, all but whispering in his ear. Clinking his glass with Charlie’s and draining it fast while Charlie just sips at his, giving every impression of listening—silent, yet unjudgemental—to whatever fresh line of patter Doolin must be rehearsing on him.

  
Ben gives Doolin as long as he can to wind it up before impatience finally gets the better of him and he strolls over; smiles a bit to himself as Doolin hustles off, fast enough to jiggle, like he’s been caught horning in on some other man’s woman—

  
And, oh: A bit too close for comfort, that last image…as Charlie, stepping back in to clear Ben a slightly more restrictive lounging-space, seems all too annoyingly aware. Observing, while he does:

  
"That man sure does like to lay it on thick."

  
"He’s somewhat famous for it, yes," Ben agrees, knowing full well the same might be (and often is) said of him. "Seemed to me like he was chatting you up, though. Shoppin’ around for a new Number Two?"

  
Charlie gives a careless glance over towards where Doolin’s chosen to set himself down again, right next to his—former?—lieutenant, Jimmy Jewels, who’s guffawing loud over some dirty joke Kinter apparently just told him. "If he is, he ain’t told Jimmy yet." A pause. "They mostly rob trains, these days; that was the principal topic."

  
_Oh, really? I’d never have guessed._

  
Ben breathes out through his nose, slow and even. Says: "Well, everyone does have to specialize, I suppose, or we’d be forever trippin’ over each other. Though we’ve robbed a few of those ourselves in our time, as you may recall…"

  
"Not for a while, now. I liked it, when we did."

  
"You like anything might get you killed." Charlie smiles wide at that, without a single shred of shame: _Guilty._ And maybe that’s what puts the fresh note of warning in Ben’s voice, shaper by far than he’d intended it to be, as he continues: "You want to take up with George Doolin now, is that it? Be _his_ right hand awhile, ‘cause you don’t consider taking down stages a suitable use of your skills?"

  
And: Charlie just gives him another of those looks, the way he did out on the trail—low, level, like he’s waiting to see what Ben does next. Replying—

  
"As it happens, no. But here’s the thing: would you care, if I did?"

  
"What?"

  
Cool: "You heard me. Boss."

  
There’s a longish moment between them, hard as an unexpected fist to the gut. Ben all but feels the sconces dim, along with the music and chatter—for all he well knows people ain’t listening in, ain’t even mostly paying attention, it takes him a second longer than he’s happy with to regain his usual poise. But finally, he gathers himself tall, keeps his voice calm, and says:

  
"You’re a damn full-grown man, Charlie Prince. I expect you’ll do whatever takes your fancy."

  
Charlie nods. "Expect I will. I mean— _you_ ain’t gonna stop me. Are you?"

  
"Not this time. Not unless—"

  
—you want me to. So…

  
 _…is_ that what you want, Charlie? ’Cause—you really got to say, you want something. Or no one’s likely to read your mind in search for it, are they? No matter _how_ well you might like to think they know you.

  
(An echo leaching in now, from somewhere near the back of his head: _You even know WHAT you want?_ )

  
Charlie’s stare holds true, unwavering. Until he breaks it off himself; turns away, towards Doolin’s table. Throwing back, as he does—

  
"Got to make your mind up sometime, boss. You want me…I’ll be over there."

  
(The clear implication: _For a while._ )

  
Well. Fine, Ben thinks, and buttonholes Jimmy Jewels in his turn, for long as he can stand it. But it don’t take a genius to figure out why Doolin’s in such an all-fired hurry to swap him out; man drinks like a fish, he can’t remember who he’s talking to, _and_ he’s a moron, besides. While Charlie, well—

  
—Charlie’s certainly a lot of things, some of them far more than Ben ever dreamed at, when first they met. But he’s certainly not _that_.

  
Catches Charlie’s eyes again as he looks away from Jimmy, wanting abruptly to be any damn other place than this one, and sees it clear as though the man was wearing a sign around his neck: _You just got to SAY what I’m worth to you, boss, out loud, where all can hear. Think I ain’t got any pride?_ And oh, he surely does: As proud as Lucifer himself, is young Charlie Prince—and rightly so, too, whenever he’s doing what he was made for. It’s one of the things Ben likes absolute best in him, for he does admire any man who’s capable of gauging his own value accurately…  
 _Reminds me of myself,_ Ben thinks. And knows, in that instant, exactly how things are going to go.

  
Doolin’s actually got his hand laid on Charlie’s sleeve, albeit lightly, when Ben’s shadow falls over him. He looks up, smiling: "Wade," he says.

  
"That’d be my second-in-command you got there, Doolin. What is it makes you think you got the right to take up Charlie’s time, exactly, I wonder?"

  
The smile slips to a smirk. "I don’t believe I hear him protesting."

  
"No? Well, Charlie’s polite that way—always has been."

  
Doolin nods, sagely. Points out: "Unlike some."

  
Which makes it Ben’s turn to smile, now; mock-mild, "understanding" as God’s own Fifth Angel, the one with that book holds everybody on Earth’s fate writ down in full, and the key to the Bottomless Pit. It’s maybe got a bit too much surface charm mixed in for someone who hasn’t known him quite so long as…well, Charlie, amongst others…to catch it, but it’s there nonetheless, if you’re watching.

  
Too bad for Doolin, though—far too enchanted by the sound of his mouth and hoping to impress Charlie with his wit, in the bargain. Because…

  
…he’s just not.

  
"You sound like you know a little something about me, George," Ben says, still smiling. "Care to fill us all in?"

  
"Well," Doolin begins, ponderous slow. "I know you like to pretend you’re some preacher, on account of you read most of the Bible one time; know you chase every piece of tail you see has green eyes, and most that don’t. Even know how you shot your whole damn gang once, back in Missouri, ‘cause they did something you didn’t like—"

  
Ben shakes his head. "No, that last part’s not so…it was ‘cause they did what I told ‘em not to. And that’s something I just won’t abide, George; you should at least understand that, if you’ve studied me half so well as you claim to…"

  
Leaning in a tad closer then, voice dropping not a whit—while Charlie sits on back with his own arms crossed, simply letting the situation evolve (right hand kept conveniently near his left-hand gun, all the same, as his left hand grazes his right-)—and concluding, eyes held fast on Doolin’s own:

  
"…just like you should know how the other thing I will _never_ brook is some fat fool dares cast covetous eyes on what’s MINE—especially not where others might be watchin’."

  
And: "You son of a clapped-out whore," Doolin starts to say, but don’t make it far beyond the "w". Because the Hand of God’s out, trigger cocked back, while he’s still sounding out Ben’s line of descent; by the time he’s on to Ben’s mother’s profession itself, the bullet’s already halfway through his throat. This lag, with Jimmy Jewels’ general sozzled lack of reflexes placed on top, explains why Charlie has Schofield Number One to Doolin’s former lieutenant’s head long before any of the others halfway thinks to arm themselves.

  
Ben picks them off like a gourds at a State Fair shooting competition, blotching Splitfoot’s walls with neat little blossoms of blood, and leaves the whole room cleared of every paying customer but Wade, Prince and extended party in but one small advancement of the bar-clock’s minute-hand: Possibly a record, even for him. But then again, Doolin’s lack of respect—solicited or not—did get him somewhat hot under the collar, by the end.  
Jimmy just crouches there, face half-froze in the flinching, like he’s trying to get as far away from Charlie’s barrel as he can without actually having to move; the rest of Wade’s gang all stand, sit or lounge similarly rigid as Ben addreses Dollin’s corpse, with utter, affable equanimity:

  
"And that, George, is why it’s never a good idea to say anything bad about another man’s Mama…not even—"

  
(or, maybe, especially)

  
"—if it happens to be true."

  
There’s a mutually drawn breath, folowed at last by poor Splitfoot Joe’s weedy voice, stammering: "I’m, uh…Mist’ Wade, I, ah…’m gonna have t’ ask you and your boys to, uh…"

  
_…leave?_

  
Ben re-holsters, turning for what he assumes used to be Doolin’s room. "Pay the man for his inconvenience, Charlie," he says, on his way by. "Plus Doolin’s whole tab, on top—and a round on the house, of course."

  
"’Course, boss."

  
"Tell Jimmy he’s right welcome to join us on that Bisbee job, too, if he ain’t got anything else lined up, in the interim."

  
Charlie looks down his gun at Jimmy’s trembling face, then shifts the hammer carefully forward again, his own grin shadowed under the tilt of his hat. "I’ll make sure to do that, boss, I find out he’s amenable."

  
Nodding again, hand on the door: "Oh, and tell old Splitfoot I’ll take a bottle for myself, whenever he might be able to tear himself away from clean-up duties long enough to check his stock—good whiskey if possible, bad if not…" Ben stops to check his cuffs, and frowns when he finds spotting. "Seems I’ll need some wash-up water, too, while I’m waitin’."

  
At that, Charlie looks up himself, pushing the hat back—and his face, thus revealed, seems suddenly younger than ever, suffused with some light far beyond that of the gas, the fire, the beat of blood in his own high-colored cheeks. His odd eyes sliding away quick once they’ve locked with Ben’s, lashed and shy, like the very first day they met.

  
"Be in with the water myself, in a minute or so," he says, finally. And blushes fiercer yet, all over—the way a girl does, when you touch her ‘tween the legs.

  
***

  
A minute or so later, therefore—

  
"You think people don’t know what we’re doin’ in here?" Ben murmurs, close enough to Charlie to taste the liquor he barely drank, back when George Doolin was alive and paying. "Think they won’t speculate, at least?"

  
Charlie, just as close, and quieter: "You think I give a good goddamn what them idiots think of me?"

  
"You? Not at all. But I _do_ care what it is they think of _me_ —so you better too, don’t you think? Bein’ how that’s pretty much the definition of your job, and all."

  
Up against the wall once more, nose to nose and both pairs of boots wet to their heels, the basin itself left up-ended on the floor in their unholy haste to get here; Ben’s got his still-bloodstained hands thrust deep inside Charlie’s jacket, feeling for his waist-band while Charlie digs his face into the crook of Ben’s jaw, beard as rough as ever. But this time it’s Charlie who thrusts Ben back, snorting through his nose, and fixes him with a stare sharp enough to cut stone, thoughts fair pouring out to flicker on the wall behind them like a magic lantern: _Ben Wade, don’t you ever damn well HEAR me, when I tell you something? Am I your Number Two, or ain’t I?_

  
And: "Listen," he says, keeping them firmly at arm’s length from each other, with what even Ben has to admit really is remarkable restraint. "What they _think_ of you is, you’re the man just shot a whole ‘nother gang right in front of ‘em, in less time than it takes some rube like Tommy Darden to spit out a dirty word—think you’re the same man knows the Bible back and forth like he’s the one wrote it, and wields the Hand of God. You really suppose they’re gonna say a damn thing to either of our faces from now on, no matter what we might either of us take a mind to do? They already look at me like I’m the Devil sometimes, and _I_ ’m just Charlie Prince, boss…"

  
—voice lowering further, a bare whisper, as he hoves back in on Ben’s neck—licks a strip up the side spitefully fast, just to feel him jump, and croons at the result. Then finishes, muffled, right into’s Ben’s jugular—

  
"…but you? _You_ ’re Ben goddamn WADE."

  
Ben shuts his eyes after that, lets Charlie have his way for now, and thinks it all out (best as he can, between kisses): The idea that Charlie, who’s never shown much sign of being able to plan past the next hour, could have reasoned enough to manipulate Ben into committing mass murder just to get what he wants—Ie, Ben secure enough about his own reputation to risk doing _this_ —is an…odd one, but not completely unexpected; Charlie’s been a growing boy (man!) practically the whole length of their acquaintanceship, after all, forever learning new tricks to go with his old bad habits. Building from strength to strength.

  
Besides which, love does make you do strange things, as Ben’s often been wont to note. And like any recent defloweree, Charlie definitely seems to think—to _know,_ with all his formerly-virgin heart—that he is now and forever in love with the person who showed him the difference between poor Juanita’s charms and what Charlie now knows to be his own true nature: Ben, bored and drunken mistake-maker extraordinaire. Or—  
—maybe not. Maybe not quite so much of a mistake as he’s been worried over, all this time. If he can use Charlie’s bright new focus to his _advantage_ , instead of assuming it necessarily has to be a _dis_ advantage…

  
But really, who cares about any of _that_ right now, with Charlie’s clever hands down his pants again? Christ!

  
 _To Hell with strategy, for the nonce,_ Ben Wade decides, grabbing Charlie’s hair with both hands. And hauls him in, kissing him back hard, ‘til they’re both of ‘em just as hot and bothered—then pulls off a few moments later, drawing a moan, and gets Charlie in much the same look-and-listen headlock Charlie put _him_ in, not so long ago. Ordering, voice equal rough with unslaked want and need for proper discipline—

  
"All right, look here. We’re going to do this _my_ way, for once: Soft, and slow, and _quiet_ , or we don’t do nothin’ at all. You don’t like that, too bad; take it or leave it." At Charlie’s stare: "Well, Charlie Prince? Take it, or leave it?"

  
Charlie thinks to himself for a second, maybe half that. Then—

  
"…take it."

  
Ben smiles yet again, this time for real, with all the considerable warmth he can muster.

  
"Good boy," he says.

  
They both skin off real quick after that, shedding gear like they just got told they could hock it for its own weight in diamond dust. When beckoned, Charlie settles himself in Ben’s lap almost gingerly, and suffers himself to be played with awhile—intently, inventively—‘til he’s all rumpled and gleaming, sweat-flushed and well-engorged and white around the mouth, teeth planted firm in his own bottom lip to keep from breaking their covenant.

  
But every time he reaches for Ben directly, Ben takes a certain nasty pleasure in steering him elsewhere, while at the same time paying confusing attention to body parts Charlie probably doesn’t consider erogenous by nature—licking his earlobe as thoroughly as he would most ladies’ nipples, for example, then biting down lightly and feeling Charlie jet against his side, shaking like he’s got the palsy.

  
Such forbearance is well worth a reward, though, so Ben lies back himself, legs (and flies) spread wide; Charlie all but dives for Ben’s cock, now shiny and purple-headed where it juts from his small-clothes, and takes himself to town.

  
An hour later, Charlie—child that he is!—has already come twice more from stuff Ben frankly didn’t even think could _make_ a man come; sucking another man’s dick, for example. Yet more evidence that Charlie, to Ben’s mind, is queer as a counterfeit bank-note, and would end up far happier if he was to find himself another similarly-inclined gunman to fixate on, instead; must _be_ some more of ‘em, somewhere, God knows. Besides Charlie himself, that is.

  
Which means that by the time they finally _are_ in full congress, it lasts far longer than it ever has before, rendering Ben the one who soon has to constantly fight to rein himself in—the sight of Charlie struggling to keep quiet, all bright red and panting, proving far more arousing than Ben had figured on it being.

  
"See how things can go, when you listen?" Ben asks, his own voice a fair deal thinner and higher than he’s aiming for, what with the strain starting to tell on him at last.

  
"Yes…boss."

  
"See how much _better_ this is than just a hand-job and a hickey done so fast we both get rug-burn?"

  
An explosive, whimpery gasp. " _Yes._ Boss."

  
"Okay, then. Turn over."

  
Newfound attention to Ben’s will or no, however, Charlie don’t like that at _all_. "You could be anyone, that way," he complains. So Ben flips him bodily, pushes in fast and draws a gasp that should really come in a bottle, ready to sell at almost any price: "Could I, really? Who d’you think I am now, Charlie Prince?"

  
"…Ben Wade, uh, oh; Ben Wade, Ben Wade, Ben goddamn Wade! Oh, oh oh OH—"

  
The sweaty nape of his neck, where his gold hair mats and curls—Ben mouths it, bites down, hears Charlie’s flat voice snarling: "Oh, boss, yes! You’re the only one I’d ever let do me like this, Jesus God, the only, _only_ one—"

  
And: Too much, too _loud,_ yet again, yet Ben finds he can’t much bring himself to care. "You know what I like best about this, Charlie?" He tells him, proximity alone translating each word into a beneath-the-skin rumble. "How we ain’t done it enough yet for you to get used to it."

  
"Not _near_ enough," Charlie agrees, and Ben shivers a bit at the vehement note in his voice—so strong, it surprises even him. Then distracts himself with a palm-skim down that flat, furry stomach to find and grasp him, balls already lifting, harder than his own gun’s steel. And Christ, that little mewl of surprised delight Charlie makes whenever Ben swirls his hips, bent over and panting in bitch-on-heat abandon: Can’t quite top all mares, but he’s the best damn ride Ben’s had yet on any stallion, bar none…

  
Babbling, now: "Boss, shit, _boss_ ; break me in damn half, why don’t you—oh goddamn, GODdamn, godDAMN—"

  
"Be very certain I will, Charlie, it happens I find I want to."

  
"Oh, yes. Oh, _please_."

  
He can’t quite keep to his own rules, though, in the end—has to _see_ Charlie’s reaction, at the very height of it, in order to reach his own maximum enjoyment: Splayed tight, too hoarse to yell now even if he wanted, trusting everything to Ben’s whim. Chomping down just enough to draw a bit of blood, as Ben’s last strokes work the seed out from inside him to splash between their bellies, soaking Ben’s softening gut.

  
Ben comes himself, right then, at the sheer spectacle of his own power over Charlie made manifest—one shot, in and out, like a ball through the brain: Bright flash, red, then black. Here, and then…

  
…gone.

  
***

  
A voice in the dark, after: "Boss. What’re you thinkin’?"

  
With the lamp out, it’s easier to be at least halfway honest. "Well, Charlie…I guess I’m thinking how I really don’t want anybody else doing this to you, not ever. Nobody but me."

  
Charlie nods slightly at that, felt rather than seen—his still-wet hair a light, slick scratch, back and forth, against Ben’s collarbone. Then settles himself in, careful to not even glance back in Ben’s direction, his body’s weight (along with the too-casual drape of his arm across Ben’s chest, heavy, yet not in any possible way to be read as an embrace) kept studiously uncomplicated by any rudiment of possessiveness. Not a staked claim, so much, as a simple exchange of warmth against the desert’s chill; nothing more, or less.

  
"I told you, no one else could," he says, at last. "I’d never let ‘em."

  
And shuts his eyes, most likely—for a minute later he’s definitely asleep, animal/angel quick and untroubled with his breath coming and going like a tide, hot over Ben’s cold heart.

  
 _He wants so little, after all,_ Ben thinks, before he can stop himself, still awake and staring up towards where the roof was, last he saw it. Then: _Good God, Ben Wade, don’t be such a damn fool._

  
Because: Charlie’s content, and that’s just as well; might be he even thinks killing Doolin’s broke Ben in the same way Ben broke _him_ in, at Mahoney’s. Couldn’t possibly dream Ben might betray him after this, at any rate, which Ben most probably won’t—not while it serves his interests, that is. Not unless, or until, it suits his future purposes.

  
Which is all fine and logical, so far as it stands. Yet it still sounds far too much like mercy for comfort, in Ben’s ears—like sentiment unadmixed, not cut (as it always should be, whether or not the result is pleasant) with sound, unclouded judgement. Doesn’t sound much like _him_ , anyhow…and that’s not good. Can’t be.

  
But hell, it’s already done. No crying over it now…

  
(Or ever.)

  
So: Ben shuts his eyes too, in the end, and lets darkness take him. Twines Charlie closer, trusting that if this does turn out to be a trap, he’ll find a way out somehow, under his own speed—he always has, in the end. Come death or the Devil, feast or famine, Yuma’s gates or fast-moving water alike, Ben Wade can more’n do for himself…though it can be nice to have somebody else watch his back for him, on occasion. And if Charlie’s truly dumb enough to want to fill that position, well, who is Ben to dissuade him?

  
_And thus Jonathan made a covenant with the house of David, saying "May the LORD seek out the enemies of David." And Jonathan made David swear again by his love for him; for he loved him as he loved his own life. —1 Samuel, 12-16, 12-17._

  
THE END


End file.
